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<h1><a href="https://archiveofourown.org/works/24322828">Poison</a> by <a class='authorlink' href='https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravevesperian/pseuds/bravevesperian'>bravevesperian</a></h1>

<table class="full">

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The adventures of Sapho'li Rasasiri [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Category:</b></td><td>Final Fantasy XIV</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Genre:</b></td><td>Gen, M/M, Polyamory, wol/wol/wol</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Language:</b></td><td>English</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Status:</b></td><td>Completed</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Published:</b></td><td>2020-05-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Updated:</b></td><td>2020-05-22</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Packaged:</b></td><td>2021-05-04 05:08:36</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Rating:</b></td><td>Teen And Up Audiences</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Warnings:</b></td><td>Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Chapters:</b></td><td>1</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Words:</b></td><td>2,467</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Publisher:</b></td><td>archiveofourown.org</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Story URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/works/24322828</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Author URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/users/bravevesperian/pseuds/bravevesperian</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Summary:</b></td><td><div class="userstuff">
              <p>Sapho'li Rasasiri, having been trapped on the First found himself unable to act, and sought self-isolation rather than action. In the Greatwood of Rak'tika, he reflects on how he got there.</p><p>Takes place before the beginning of Shadowbringers for most WoLs, canon spit roasted and carved for juicy bits as usual.</p>
            </div></td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Relationships:</b></td><td>Warrior of Light/Warrior of Light (Final Fantasy XIV)</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series:</b></td><td>The adventures of Sapho'li Rasasiri [2]</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Series URL:</b></td><td>https://archiveofourown.org/series/1465804</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Comments:</b></td><td>3</td></tr>

<tr><td><b>Kudos:</b></td><td>6</td></tr>

</table>

<a name="section0001"><h2>Poison</h2></a>
<div class="story"><div class="fff_chapter_notes fff_head_notes"><b>Author's Note:</b><blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Only roughly proofread. Eh, it's a drabble.</p>
    </blockquote></div><div class="userstuff module">
    
    <p>Delirium was not an unfamiliar thing for Sapho’li. Even as his greatsword lay hidden in one of the many cave-homes the area boasted, wrapped in moldering cloth and rusting, he knew the sensation the moment it washed over him. He knew too that it was wrong. His eye wandered down to the feverish burn of the dripping cuts on his hands,  jagged and ugly things caused by the broken shards of an ampoule he’d unceremoniously fallen upon.  </p><p> </p><p>These were, he noted nearly immediately, not the ancient potsherds he’d become acquainted with since his foray into Ronkan history. They were modern, and the acrid foul smell of poison made him choke as it mixed with the damp leaflitter. </p><p> </p><p> Coughing, he threw himself back into a crouching position as the toxin coursed through his blood. Sapho’li crawled through the leaf mold, the inky black fabric of his skirts staining the same sickly green as the moss he was crushing. Blood smeared the shaft of his staff as he groped for it, smearing crystalline petals in crimson as he tried to summon the aether to cleanse the blight. </p><p> </p><p> <i>Curse this feral world and its vicious factions.</i> The Night’s Blessed and their damned mortal enemies-- how were they his problem? How was any of this his problem? How had he gotten here? He’d even taken the name Myste to adhere to their traditions. For all the work he’d put into eking out his small and meager place here among the pious folk, he felt now in his desperation the ire of bitter regret and anger. He knew that Eorzea was hardly any better, maybe worse: but his homesickness wouldn't let him linger on it. </p><p> </p><p> If not for the Crystal Exarch’s blunder he wouldn’t be here at all. If not for the absolute madness of everything that had precluded the last few miserable years of his life-- </p><p> </p><p> That was where his mind wandered nearly every time he was faced with the lonely, foreign nature of this world known as the First. To the days before he had suddenly found himself dragged unceremoniously across the Rift. Delirium. Always Delirium.  </p><p> </p><p> Fighting on the front lines with the Scions had always been worth what little compensation it could offer him. The liberation of Ala Mhigo, the homeland that J’tomo had longed for was worth even more. And if he could in the process, crush more Imperial skulls then he’d not have complained. The Ghimlyt Dark had tried even his nerves of steel however, and he found himself longing for a return to their home in Thanalan though-- their rest was hardly rest at all.   </p><p> Immediately upon their return, the Syndicate’s dogs were nipping at their heels. He remembered Lo’kha begging them to stay gone until things could be better sorted out. J’tomo was a Nunh, and he was not one to be told what to do, at the best of times. He’d always been fearless in the face of the Syndicate’s demands, dancing on the knife’s edge of what might get them all killed and what wouldn’t.  </p><p>Before the war effort had called them away, often dragged in different directions to the very ends of Hydaelyn, he had thought them at the very apex of bliss. A secret world that no one could take from them. A secret world that shone and sparkled with the light hidden within it-- as fragile and brittle as blown glass.  </p><p>    It was a world made up of lazy mornings in the garden: Lo’kha filtching a bottle of something fruity from the bar while J’tomo shot targets off of the back fence and into the mists of the gorge beneath the rise that their little neighborhood occupied. Sapho’li would lay in the grass, trying to tie daisy chains from the clover flowers that grew in the scrubby lawn-- the best that could be managed in Ul’dah.  </p><p>    When the sun got too hot they’d wander inside for a bath, chins on hands and legs tangled as they lazed about. Such quiet moments while poignant and always the one the heart remembers first-- were rare and to be treasured. He remembered the smell of J’tomo’s skin, often mixed with the scent of gunpowder-- the scratch of Lo’kha’s facial hair on his shoulder as he leaned on him, grumbling. Dark eyes and eyes like the sun through the canopy of the Black Shroud where he and Lo’kha were born. Where they met J’tomo when he was just a would-be merchant.  </p><p> </p><p>    Sapho’li remembered the day that they had returned from Othard like it was yesterday. Their tired legs had carried them to the outskirts of the city, the distinct smell of sea-breeze still lingering in his memory. They walked together as they always did, J’tomo a few steps ahead and Sapho’li cutting a strange and intimidating figure with his broadsword on his back-- its silhouette nearly dwarfing him. Their reputation didn’t seem to stop or phase the Roegadyn, his face hidden beneath a familiar style of red and white cowl.  </p><p>    “Milords, J’tomo of the Ji tribe and Ser Rasasiri I presume?” He asked.  </p><p>    “Who’s askin’?” It was only a moment of apprehension. He knew who’s man it was by looking at him.  </p><p>    “Pardon the pleasantries sers, this is a matter of utmost urgency.”  </p><p>    J’tomo and Sapho’li shared a glance, eyes narrowed.  </p><p>    “Has something happened to Lo’kha,” Sapho’li asked, his voice lowered.  </p><p>    “Nay, though the message is from him. He says you’re not to enter the city. You’re to lay low until one of us comes to get you. Quarrymill or Castrum Oriens may very well be--” </p><p>    “I’m going home.” J’tomo said darkly.  </p><p>    The tone was enough to nearly startle Sapho’li-- his good eye tracked his movement as the older Miqo’te shouldered past the messenger.  </p><p>    The man looked flabbergasted, clearly not used to being so flippantly unheeded-- but he could do nothing to stop the man from his hurried move towards the city gates. Sapho’li spared only the barest of exasperated glances and a small bow to the man who had failed his singular mission as he returned to following on his husband’s heels.  </p><p>    “Shouldn’t we at least be careful? Lo’kha wouldn’t send someone if it wasn’t serious.” Sapho’li attempted. </p><p>    “The tribe is my priority.” His responsibility to the people ran deeper than his own pride, but his pride was just as dangerous.  </p><p>    They’d fought this for too long in all the wrong ways. There was no subtlety in their resistance, just flippant refusal to submit to the organization that had the entire region under its control. Even the Sultanate was subject to their whims to an extent. Who had they been to think they could stand alone. Had they done it all for the thrill of it?  </p><p>    Sapho’li had found himself wondering as men in visored turbans dragged him kicking, biting, and screaming from his own home. They had tried to strike when he was alone before-- and he wouldn’t have been if he hadn’t insisted on holding down the fort as he always had when J’tomo had business elsewhere. His business this time being checking on the livelihood of his missing tribesmen, reportedly driven from the city and into the wilds of Thanalan by the Syndicate.  </p><p>    Even the “beast” that dwelled inside of him stood little chance against such overwhelming odds.  </p><p> </p><p>    He woke up to infernal birdsong, the sound of life beneath the endless sea of trees that was the Black Shroud-- and to Lo’kha and J’tomo’s voices slowly rising as they fought.  </p><p>    “This wouldn’t have happened if you’d have done as I said. Did you really think you could fight them and win? You’re an <i>idiot.</i>” </p><p>“And you kept right on serving them. You never once thought about what it was doing to him. To us, did you?”  </p><p> </p><p>Everything hurt, but Sapho’li couldn’t stay put when they were at each other's throats like they were. He’d been breaking up their fights for years-- he wouldn’t stop now. It took a bit of work, but he managed to make it into the hallway by leaning against the wall. His hair felt wrong: too light, as if it were sticking out at every possible angle-- but he didn’t want to think on it for too long. First, he recognized the scenery. They were at M’ista’s place; a buisness associate in the Shroud. At least they were relatively safe for the moment.  </p><p>“You won’t have to worry about that anymore.” Lo’kha said, his tone absolutely black with his intent. </p><p>“What does that mean--” J’tomo demanded, and Sapho’li rounded the corner to see him jerking Lo’kha back by his shoulder: He had turned away.  </p><p>“I’ll clean up your mess. I guess. Just stay out of my way.”  </p><p> </p><p>“Sihll’a?” The name came from his lips nearly unbidden.  </p><p> </p><p>He watched Lo’kha’s ears droop visibly, his fists clenched as though to steel his resolve.  </p><p> </p><p>“Go rest. You’re hurt worse than you think.” </p><p> </p><p>“I don’t want to. Come sit with me.”  </p><p> </p><p>He could sense it-- the leaving. It was coming, and there was nothing he could do about it. Lo’kha didn’t answer, and turned to leave again. Sapho’li wanted with all of his heart to chase after him, but his legs would barely hold him. J’tomo had gone quiet, his teeth bared. </p><p> </p><p>“Go take care of him.” Lo’kha snapped at the Nunh. “Take… care of each other.”  </p><p>“YOU take care of him!” J’tomo swung his fist suddenly-- catching Lo’kha in the jaw.  </p><p> </p><p>“Stop it!” Sapho’li’s voice came broken and shrill, raw from the shouting and howling he’d done at the hands of his abductors.  </p><p> </p><p>The moment of shock was enough to stop any further fighting-- but Lo’kha also took the opportunity to put more distance between them. The door was open as the proprietress stormed into the hallway in her nightclothes to intervene in whatever had woken her from her sleep. The sight of his back slipping through the door was the last time he’d seen him. Everything had been so close to being alright-- he’d thought that they’d finally be free of the Syndicate, but Lo’kha could not be. That was the simple fact.  </p><p> </p><p> “Myste--! Lord Myste, answer me! Say something! Gods—Alright, wait; Master Matoya is coming,” The voice was far away. Who was Myste? His own face was not what came to mind, not at first.  </p><p>It was jarring every time, a shock to the system after he had fought so hard for his own name, to escape the shadow of his mother. Sapho’li: third son of Sapho, a Seer of the Rasasiri clan, protectors of the secrets of Amdapor-- none of it mattered here. Not a drop in a bucket, not a tear in an endless sea. He had been “Myste” for over a year.  </p><p>Sapho’li opened his good eye, vision swimming as the familiar and rather dramatic shape that was “Master Matoya” imposed between him and the eternal light.  </p><p> </p><p>“You can never leave well enough alone can you, Sapho’li?” She spoke with her usual exasperation though there was some tenderness to spare for her friend. There were times when Sapho’li wondered if they could be called friends at all-- their methods often clashed, their style of investigation and resolution putting them on very different paths. But the both of them were Scions through and through, even here where the Scions of the Seventh Dawn hardly existed.  </p><p>“You idiot, stay awake! What would you have me tell them, when they come to find you?” He would have laughed bitterly if he’d had the strength.  </p><p>He was going to die here alone. He would never see “them” again.  He was tired, maybe that was all. The world went dark and that bittersweet, echoing sorrow was all he knew.  </p><p> </p><p>The fire in his veins pulsed in the darkness for what felt like eternity until it was eventually replaced by a different pulsing. It was like music, but not quite. It was a soothing drone, crystalline and warm-- vaguely familiar. He couldn’t place it, couldn’t seem to wrangle his addled mind into sense. Aether; cool as pure water, was cascading over him and cleansing the vengeful poison from his body.  </p><p>With some effort, he managed to pry his eyes open-- both, he noticed immediately by the blur of aether he could see on the right. That, and a glimpse of what he swore was red hair beneath a hood.  </p><p> </p><p>    “Lo’kha…?” It couldn’t be. The aether wasn’t right.  </p><p> </p><p>    “No, I’m afraid not. My deepest apologies.” The Exarch.  </p><p> </p><p>So he’d likely been whisked away to the Crystarium so that the Tower might save his life. Very well. He’d all but run from the place upon his arrival, fearing the Exarch’s machinations and the Crystal Tower itself as if it might take personal offense to his expeditions within years back.  </p><p> It made him sick how easily he longed for what was a world now forever lost to him; to his world, broken before he was ever dragged from the corporeal one and into this.  </p><p>Sapho’li flinched slightly at the cool touch of crystal to his skin. The Exarch had stroked a few strands of his hair from his face as he blinked, trying to get his eyes to focus. It was always hard to see clearly with his cursed eye uncovered. Irritating how gentle he was, how soft he could be even though Sapho’li could smell the same kind of cold shrewdness on him a mile away-- and knew that it wasn’t reserved for him. He closed his eyes and suppressed a groan.  </p><p> </p><p>“Wouldn’t you consider returning here? To the Crystarium. The Crystalline Mean could use your talents.” The Exarch crooned, his voice that dulcet hum it always was. Familiar.  </p><p>“You’d like that, wouldn’t you?” He knew he was lonely. Sapho’li was too broken to fill such a yawning chasm. “I’m afraid that I’m doing my best work in the Greatwood. This place has little to offer me I fear.” --And it kept him hoping; waiting, a watchful eye on that accursed portal.  </p><p> </p><p>"I see. Forgive my insistence." The Exarch answered dryly after a moment. He was crestfallen. Sapho'li felt guilty nearly immediately.  </p><p> </p><p>"Guess m'not going anywhere for a while, at any rate." That got him a small chuckle. </p><p> </p><p>"Indeed. Now, rest. Let the Tower do its work."  </p><p> </p><p>But he would not linger, would not rest more than was necessary—and in as little time as possible returned to his hermit hole, the scars of his mishap as jagged ropes of scarring on his palms. The memory of the near-death experience faded quickly while he was busy. Keeping himself busy with everything and nothing. Over the days and weeks, the so-called Summoner of the Greatwood fell into a deep trance within his abode, mind mired in the flow of light that swathed the First—waiting in silence for what may never come.</p>
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